


After the End

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Angst, Double Agent Mycroft, Hopeful Ending, Kidnapping, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Resistance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26974939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: Eleven years after they lost the war Greg volunteers to kidnap Mycroft, who's working in the new government.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94





	After the End

Greg Lestrade glanced up at the flag as he made his way slowly out of the factory. Eleven years since they'd lost the war. Eleven years since Britain had ceased to be anything but an occupied country. The sight of the enemy flag flying over every state building still gave him a spike of anger every time he saw it, though he was careful to keep it concealed.

There was a meeting tonight. For now though, he followed all the others to the cafeteria and ate the gruel that was supposed to keep them going. They weren't technically prisoners, but not like there was anywhere to go.

After dinner he went back to catch a little sleep. He shared the room with three other men, all of them on different factory shifts. There wasn't even a window, not that it would have helped. Those in charge still enjoyed reminding them they were occupied.

He woke up with just enough time to slip from his room and go down two flights and out the door. He glanced around to make sure he wasn't being followed, then gave a certain knock at a door down the street. The door opened a crack and he was allowed in.

It was nice to be surrounded by the sound of English; they weren't allowed to speak it in the factory. Greg took his place off to the side of the room, watching and waiting for the meeting to get started.

"Alright, you know we've been planning on something big for a while," said Anna, the woman leading their local cell. "We've got intel and an opportunity to grab someone important." She put a picture down on the table. "Name is Holmes. The job is to take him to a safehouse up north. We can use him for leverage from there. Do I have any volunteers?"

Greg bit back a wave of rage and raised his hand.

**

Mycroft Holmes gratefully pulled off his uniform and put it in the closet. He rubbed his temples and walked over to put something on the record player. He wasn't supposed to have all of these albums, but rank had its privileges. He slipped into a comfortable jumper and trousers and hummed along with the record as he took a plate from the fridge and heated it up.

The day had been long, but he'd put in some good work. And there were other plans that would hopefully see fruition sooner rather than later. He was tired, but then again, he was always tired these days, trying to keep so many balls in the air.

After his meal he was feeling particularly sleepy. He frowned; normally he wasn't quite so exhausted as this. He hadn't seen his housekeeper, but that wasn't unusual. She was usually gone before he got home.

Alarm bells going in the back of his head, he stood up and took a step towards the telephone, only to collapse.

**

Greg and two others slipped into the house with the key they'd been given. He couldn't help but glance around. The place was nice, well-appointed, not really surprising for someone of his rank and station. A record player hissed as it rotated at the end of a record.

Their target was laying on the floor. Greg hadn’t been sure what he would feel, but he was surprised that besides the anger there were other feelings too, things he thought had long been dead and buried.

Putting all of that aside, he bent down with the others to pick up Holmes and carry him out and into a waiting vehicle.

They drove quickly into the darkness. One of the other men got out of the vehicle at the edge of town. The other one got out at a village, leaving Greg alone with the still unconscious, Holmes.

By dawn Greg was well into the wilds. He carefully kept a lid on his emotions. He had a job to do and it didn't matter what else had happened. All of that was years ago and made no difference now. Holmes had made his choices.

Finally, he made his way down a dirt track and drove the vehicle into a barn. Holmes was starting to come around a bit, though still incapacitated.

Greg heaved him out of the car and into the cottage. He moved a floorboard and carried him down into the dark root cellar, getting him into a chair and tying him up. He'd come all the way around soon enough, then perhaps it would be time to face their demons.

**

Mycroft groaned softly as he opened his eyes, head pounding. Shifting, he quickly realized he was bound and in darkness. He bit back a wave of panic, catching the barest glimpses of light through the floorboards above.

Not taken by the authorities, then or else he would have been in a much different sort of cell. So, the resistance was more likely. He could work with that.

There was a creak as some of the boards were shifted, revealing rough-hewn steps. A figure came down, carrying a candle, and Mycroft's heart froze. "Gregory," he whispered.

He stopped and looked at Mycroft, face unreadable in the dim light. "Yeah," he said, voice tightly controlled.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment as a wave of emotion passed over him. He heard Greg step closer. When he opened his eyes again, he could see nothing but the hatred in Greg's eyes. Not that he blamed him. 

"I'm glad you're part of the resistance," said Mycroft.

Greg snorted. "Sure. You sold out years ago."

Mycroft hesitated. But if Greg refused to believe him, he'd understand. "I'm Starling," he said.

"What is that supposed to mean?" demanded Greg, something dangerous in his voice.

"The leak to the resistance. Code name is Starling."

"You would say anything, wouldn't you?" snarled Greg as he turned away.

Mycroft felt his heart breaking all over again. There was blood on his hands, certainly; he'd done a lot of things over the last eleven years. But nothing hurt as badly as this. "Gregory..."

"Get my name out of your mouth," said Greg, glancing over his shoulder. "And keep quiet. Don't make me shoot you." He went back up the ladder, leaving Mycroft only with the cold certainty that it had been no idle threat.

**

Greg put the rug and table back over the floorboards and set down the candle before blowing it out. He picked up his gun and stepped out of the tiny cottage, looking out at the gray skies.

He hadn't seen Mycroft in twelve years. How could it still hurt so badly? Well, that wasn't quite true. Ten years ago he'd caught a glimpse of him, wearing that uniform, already clearly working his way into his new master’s good graces.

God, how could someone so brilliant turn his back on everything? Was it just survival? 

Well, Greg had survived, too, and he hadn't done it by putting on the uniform of his enemy. Taking a deep breath, he hardened his heart. All was fair in love and war, right? And this was war; there was no room for love. Not anymore.

He checked his weapon and went back into the cottage. Stepping into the kitchen, he moved some things around, pulling out a small radio. He tapped out a code and waited for a response.

It took only a few moments to get one.  _ Stay in place _ . Well, he could do that. He hid the radio again and put down the gun, turning to make something to eat.

**

Mycroft listened to Greg walk around above him. His stomach rumbled, but he could certainly stand to miss a few meals. He shifted in his bonds and found they'd been well done. Greg always had been good at knots.

He blushed a bit at the memory and pushed those thoughts aside. Greg clearly hated him and Mycroft could hardly blame him. He knew how it looked to the world, all of it by careful design. But he'd tried hard to save some small piece of his soul. Not that it mattered now.

He closed his eyes, letting himself remember happier days. In the safety of the darkness, he allowed himself a few silent tears as his mind went over a few of his greatest regrets. He’d always helped the resistance where and when he could. But he found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he'd made any other choice, but the one that led Greg to despise him.

**

Greg avoided Mycroft the rest of the day, pacing around the cottage, making an attempt to read a book that had been left behind by a previous occupant. But always he was well aware of the man beneath the floorboards.

In the evening, he made another small meal. This time, he shifted the boards and went down to Mycroft. Somehow, Mycroft looked smaller this time, as if all his confidence and arrogance were gone. He shook his head when Greg came towards him with the thin soup. "I don't need it," he said softly.

"They want you alive," said Greg, bringing the bowl to Mycroft's lips.

Mycroft obeyed and drank it. Greg looked at him for a moment as he finished, then headed for the stairs again. 

"Could you leave the candle?" asked Mycroft.

Was Mycroft afraid of the dark or something? Still, Greg couldn't quite ignore the soft request. He looked at Mycroft and set the candle down between Mycroft and the steps, then left him alone.

**

Mycroft lost track of time over the next few days. His arms ached, but he didn't complain the few times Greg did come down to feed him or give him water. And after the first night, Greg left him a candle without being asked.

It was hard being alone with only his mind and his memories. He knew the things he had done and when he did get a snatch of sleep, nightmares hovered close at hand. 

Greg didn't look as though he was sleeping well, either, but there was far too much of a gulf between them to even begin to speak.

**

Greg checked in on the radio a week or so into his stay. It had seemed right to be the one to mind Mycroft, but he had to admit it was starting to get under his skin. He wanted to shake the man and ask him why. He wanted to hurt him and he wanted to plead with him.

Tonight the message was longer, though hurried. Clearly, things were happening and he was warned he might not get another communication for some time. Greg worried about the people he'd left behind.

Outside the weather had turned cold, meaning that the cellar was even colder. Mycroft had made no move to escape, and Greg knew he'd be no good to anyone if he froze to death, so he made up his mind and when he came down the stairs that night he brought only the candle and a knife.

Mycroft was shivering. He watched Greg as he approached, fear in his eyes as he looked at the knife, quickly changing to resignation. It made Greg’s heart twist. Biting back his feelings, Greg cut Mycroft free. "Don't even think about running," he said. "Come on." He gestured Mycroft up the stairs in front of him.

Mycroft obeyed and sat down where Greg indicated, rubbing feeling back into his arms and hands. Greg pushed aside the sliver of guilt he felt and put everything back into place before getting Mycroft a bowl of soup.

"Thank you," said Mycroft quietly, picking up his bowl and eating hungrily.

Greg couldn't help but watch him as he ate. He never thought he'd ever spend any sort of time with Mycroft again, and certainly not like this. Questions burned in his mouth, but where could he even begin?

**

When he finished eating, Mycroft looked up at Greg, catching his gaze. He looked away, rubbing his hands together. "You want to know why," he said quietly.

"You owe me that much, don't you?" Greg's voice was raw as he tried to hold his emotions back.

"I felt I could do more from the inside," said Mycroft, looking at his hands. "I knew I could get them to trust me. I don't expect you to believe me."

"If you're working for us, then why did they want to take you out like this?"

"I've kept my activities secret. Maybe your cell didn't know what I've been doing. Maybe they simply wanted me out of the way while they did something else. Truthfully I'm not sure why they took me alive." Mycroft took a breath and looked back at Greg. "But you volunteered."

"I did," said Greg.

Mycroft looked at the knife on the table. "I wouldn't resist if you did."

"I'm not going to murder you," said Greg, moving the knife over to the counter. He sighed and rubbed his chin before looking back up at Mycroft. "In truth thought I wanted to, but..."

"There's too much unfinished business between you and I," said Mycroft quietly.

"I guess you could put it that way. If you run, though, well..."

"Where would I go?" shrugged Mycroft.

Greg nodded. "You look half-frozen. Come and lay down by the fire."

Mycroft unsteadily got to his feet and followed Greg into the other room, accepting a blanket and curling up close to the flames.

**

Greg watched him fall into a restless sleep. He went back into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of liquor, pouring himself a glass and throwing it back before going back and laying down on the sofa, knowing he'd have his own bad dreams.

**

Mycroft woke sometime in the early morning. He sat up and looked at Greg. Quietly he got to his feet and put the blanket over him, then stepped into the kitchen. He put away the liquor bottle and started making them breakfast.

Greg appeared just as he was finishing up, eyes guarded. He walked over and picked up the knife.

Mycroft ignored the shiver of fear he felt and finished what he was doing, bringing it over to the table.

They ate in silence, the weight of all the things unsaid hanging heavy in between them.

"I need to go outside," said Greg when he finished. "Don't go anywhere."

Mycroft nodded and watched him walk to the door.

**

It had snowed at some point in the night. Greg went to collect firewood, wondering if they'd be stuck here for the winter. When he came back inside, Mycroft was sitting near the fire again, arms wrapped around his knees.

Greg dropped the firewood off and went back into the kitchen, but Mycroft had done the dishes already.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair he went back into the front room.

"Ask me anything," said Mycroft quietly.

That was an entirely loaded statement. Greg sat for a few moments, mulling over all of the things he could possibly say.

"Still don't like blackberry jam?" he asked.

Mycroft looked up at him, surprised. He cracked just the smallest hint of a smile. "Not at all."

"Good thing they didn't leave us any here, then," said Greg, leaning back on the sofa.

"Do we have enough food?" asked Mycroft.

Greg shrugged. "If I need to, I can go down to the nearest village. But we should be okay for a while."

Mycroft nodded and stretched his hands towards the fire to warm them. The silence that stretched out between them wasn't quite so frosty.

**

They moved carefully around one another over the next few days. They still avoided any real conversation, but Mycroft caught the hint of a smile once or twice and being around Greg this way reminded him of better days.

Three days after Greg had released him, Mycroft woke and found Greg shivering on the sofa. He got up and put the blanket over him, touching his forehead. He had a fever. 

Frowning, Mycroft went to make him something warm to eat, wishing they had some tea.

Over the next several days he nursed Greg as well as he could with the limited supplies in the cottage. He thought about taking the car down to the village, but the last thing he needed was for Greg to think he'd run off, even if he was barely awake for much of the time.

He heard Greg's nightmares, too. The guilt he'd carried for so long wormed in his gut, knowing that while he might not have been directly responsible, he'd had a hand in some of those bad dreams.

Finally Greg's fever broke. Mycroft fed him soup and gave him a bit of the alcohol, hoping it would help him to rest better. That night he lay down in his usual spot in front of the fire, silently praying in a way he hadn't in a very long time.

**

Greg woke in the night feeling better than he had in days. He sat up and scrubbed his face. Mycroft lay next to the fire. He hadn't run off. And though Greg's memory of the last few days was hazy, he knew Mycroft had taken care of him.

It made Greg's heart ache. They'd been an us once. Then there'd been the war and they'd both done what they could. They'd made the sort of promises one did when they were young and in love. And then it had all gone to shit.

How could he reconcile that with now? With Mycroft working with the enemy for the last eleven years? Mycroft had almost certainly done things, or at the very least, stood by while things were done.

Greg wanted to believe him. That he'd been secretly working with the resistance the whole time. He wanted to forget all of the privation and terror of the years and take Mycroft into his arms again. But how could he?

Mycroft whimpered in his sleep and Greg closed his eyes. There was no hardening his heart now. He picked up the blanket and quietly knelt next to Mycroft to lay it over him.

Making a noise, Mycroft rolled over. In the flickering firelight Greg could see his cheeks were wet with tears. Swallowing hard, Greg reached out to touch his cheek.

Mycroft woke in an instant, grabbing his wrist. Greg saw fear in his eyes for half a moment before he composed himself. "You're awake," he said quietly.

"You're crying," answered Greg.

Mycroft sat up and scrubbed his face in his hands. "I don't sleep well. Neither do you."

Greg sat on the floor next to him, not quite touching him. "Do you remember the first time you slept over at mine?"

Mycroft took a few deep breaths and raised his head. "We stayed up late talking half the night. We fell asleep on the sofa together."

"Yeah," said Greg.

"I don't know what happened to the person I was then," said Mycroft quietly.

"He went through a lot. And he's been living a lie the last decade or so." Greg did reach out and put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft flinched but didn't entirely pull away. "I don't deserve you, Gregory. I didn't then and certainly not now."

"Was it ever about who deserved what?" said Greg. "I miss my friend."

Raising his head, Mycroft looked at him, then shifted closer. Greg put his arms around him, holding him to his chest, part of him hardly believing he was doing this.

But he'd spoken the truth. He'd been missing Mycroft for eleven years; he'd be a fool to push him away now.

**

Mycroft woke in the morning with his head on Greg's chest and the blanket covering them both. He closed his eyes, reveling in a feeling he never thought he could have again. It felt like coming home.

Greg ran gentle fingers through his hair. "Do you have to go back?" he asked.

"I don't want to," whispered Mycroft. "I'm so tired."

Greg tilted Mycroft's chin up and kissed him gently. Mycroft sighed, feeling his eyes filling with tears. How long had it been since anyone had treated him with kindness? Either of them, really.

"Then stay with me. We'll figure it out."

Mycroft rubbed his eyes. "There is no place I would rather be than by your side."

Greg kissed his temple and held him close. 

Mycroft cracked a smile. "Thank you for kidnapping me."

Greg smiled back. "Think of it more as rescuing the princess from a dragon."

Mycroft laughed, really laughed, in a way that was almost startling. Greg was soon laughing along with him until they were both shaking with it.

The world was still a dangerous place, the land was still occupied, but in this moment they were both freer than they had been in years. In a world that had taken so much from both of them, they had a second chance. And that was a miracle in itself.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to bookjunkiecat, beltainefaerie and TryingToScribble for reading along and encouraging and giving it a read over.


End file.
